


What Matters

by SirKris



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, I don't know how dark I'm going with this yet, Revenge, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKris/pseuds/SirKris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is back, and Molly is in serious danger as he decides to include her in his game with the consulting detective. But when pasts are exploited and unforeseen players are brought to light, Sherlock and Molly will have to confront their demons, all the while holding fast to what matters most to them in the end. </p><p>Rating and tags might change later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miss Me?

**Author's Note:**

> I probably have no business starting another multi-fic as I already have 2 others in progress but I'm going to anyway. Sorry about the vague-ish summary. I kind of know where it will go but characters tend to do their own thing once I start writing.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

Molly had been walking back to her office to find her pen when the monitor lit up on it's own to show a face she hoped never to see. His disoriented voice repeated the same words over, and over again.

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

"I think I look better in person, right Molls?" A sing-song voice asked behind her. Her stomach lurched she turned around to face the world's only consulting criminal. Words had failed her when she looked at the dangerous man. She had only known him as Jim from IT, not mastermind criminal, and so she wasn't sure how to react.

"I know I'm handsome Molly, but geez you're a bit star struck."

Moriarty looked down at himself. "Hm. Must be the suit. Sorry Molls but I'm on official revenge business so it'll have to do."

"What do you want?" she asked, reaching slowly into her pocket to call someone.

He grasped his chest in dramatic shock. "Is that how you greet an ex-boyfriend? Not so mousy are we now."

"You were never my boyfriend" she snapped, wincing immediately when she remembered whom she was talking to.

Moriarty's eyed he with amusement. "Oh, come on Molly, it's me! Jim from IT! I'd never kill you." He scrunched up his face uncertainly, "I think."

"You're also a murderous psychopath named Jim Moriarty" she replied more cautiously. Her heart thundered in her chest as she tried to discreetly redial a number.

"Mmm yes, and no. You see, that was more my brother than me; we did this kind of tag character play, but I digress. Aaaand I see you're not paying attention." He finished with a pout on his face. He had caught on to what she was trying to do.

"Oh, come on Molly, you're much smarter than you let on. I know you understand this whole cornered-damsel dynamic," he said as he reached politely for her to hand over the phone. Her heart sank as she passed her only form of communication to him.

Moriarty looked down at the screen with a puzzled look. "Greg? Oh," he said, comprehension dawning on his face. "The DI fellow with the first name Sherlock never remembers. And here I thought you would call Sherlock. Oh no wait, you did before."

He looked up to grin at her. "Didn't he get exiled today?"

Molly shut her eyes briefly at that. It was true that she had impulsively called the consulting detective the moment she got her hands on her phone but had quickly tried it to call the only other person that could help.

"So," he began cheerfully, "You don't seem surprised that you might have been dating two different people." Molly wasn't sure what to make of his friendly demeanor but decided to go along with it.

"Nothing beats the 'dating a criminal mastermind' part." She didn't know how long she had before changed and so chose to work on her next best option, figuring out how to get away from him.

"If it makes you feel better, I was the one who watched Glee with you" Moriarty turned around to play with the test tubes. "Dreadfully dull if I might add. I think I may have saved you an early death at the hands of my brother for that." He looked back at her in time to see her observing their surroundings and sighed dejectedly.

" _Fine_. If you really want me to speed this all up." He snapped his fingers behind to alert a man Molly hadn't noticed until then.

Everything in her was screaming to run away now, but something told her it would do more harm than good to her in her situation.

God, she hoped Greg would have the sense to call back her. Molly couldn't help but back slightly away from the fast approaching stranger. His menacing presence was ringing warning bells in her head and it took everything in her to ask her question calmly.

"What are you trying to do?"

"Test a theory," he replied brightly. The man grabbed a tight hold on Molly as Moriarty walked up closer to her. "And prove a point." He drew out a switch blade from his pocket, examining the blade before pointing it towards her.

"Sorry dear, this might hurt just a tinsy bit."

 


	2. IOU

"Welcome back brother mine."

Sherlock threw his brother a grim smile before asking, "Has anything happened? Increased crime levels, flagged terrorist attacks?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, it's only been 9 minutes. But no, my agents haven't reported anything yet."

"Hm, I rather rely on my network." He patted his pockets and turned around to grab the phone away from the guard that had escorted him out the plane.

"Have you considered the possibility it may be a hoax to cause a stir?" Sherlock asked as he turned on his phone. No text messages, that's to be expected. A missed call from Molly? He pondered for a second before deciding it must have been an reflexive call.

"Of course, seeing how it is difficult to see how he could have survived." Mycroft explained. "There is a chance the video is authentic, especially given the rather spectacular timing of halting your exile."

"Shall we?" he motioned to the car before he sat in. The rest followed as John's phone rang.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson? Yes—calm down—we're alright. No, we're not sure but they let Sherlock come back. No I'm sure it will be fine. Hang on, someone else is calling me. Yeah, Greg?"

As Mary watched them all attend to their devices, it suddenly occurred to her that they might be forgetting something.

"Sherlock, if this really is Moriarty, wouldn't he want to get back at you for cheating your fall?"

"Yes that's quite obvious," he said without looking up. Nothing. No death reports or unusual activity. Is Moriarty bating his time, or is there something he missed?

"And isn't it obvious he would go for one person right now?"

He looked up irritated at Mary for interrupting his thought process. "What are you—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Has Molly called you?"

He froze for a moment. "Yes, she did earlier, why?"

"Well Greg said she called him but hung up before he could pick up and she's not answering."

Almost instantly, John and Mary received incoming text message.

Mary read, "It says 'glad someone's finally noticed'. " She exchanged a worried glance with John before looking at Sherlock. "It's from Molly's phone."

Sherlock grabbed John's phone to read the message himself. A thousand thoughts and scenarios were running through his head as he tried to call her. Nothing.

"Mycroft," Sherlock started apprehensively.

"On it," he answered as he picked up a call.

John turned look to Sherlock. "Do you think he's after her?"

Sherlock wasn't paying attention, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Why isn't he contacting me directly? This doesn't make any sense."

"What do you mean you can't get in?" Mycroft snapped at the caller.

"What's wrong?"

"A biohazard evacuation has been issued. No one can get into the vicinity."

"Rubbish, it's a ruse." Sherlock turned back to the driver. "Head to Barts!"

"Sherlock, calm down we have people—"

"This is not another damned agent of yours Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. His venomous tone caught the elder Holmes off guard

"Barts. NOW!" Pin drop silence followed his outburst as Mycroft quietly nodded to the driver to follow Sherlock's instructions.

The frustrated consulting detective sat back and shut his eyes.

"So stupid," he whispered to himself. Molly has never called him once in the 8 years she's known him. Why didn't he spare it another thought? If something happens to her…His thoughts were cut off by a bone-chilling song.

_**Ah, ah, ah, ah** _

_**Stayin' alive, stayin' alive** _

They all looked turned at him. He quickly pulled out his phone to see the receiver. A text message from Molly. His thumb trembled slightly as he opened the message.

It was a photo of the entrance to the morgue. On the door, written in crimson blood were three letters.

_**IOU** _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how, but this chapter got really long. I will warn you, it's a bit tense and some medical jargon got in there somehow. Anyway I hope you like it and thanks for reading!

"I'll find out the source of the bio—" Sherlock shut the door before Mycroft could finish his sentence. People in hazmat suits were ushering crowds away from the hospital entrance but he didn't hesitate to boulder his way through them.

"Sherlock, wait!" John ran to catch up with him, apologizing profusely as he jumped over the men Sherlock had knocked to the ground in his haste to get to the building. He finally caught up just as they got to the lower level.

They both faltered upon seeing the morgue entrance doors marked with the dripping letters.

Sherlock could hear his own blood roaring in his ears as he walked closer as he banged the doors open. He whirled around desperately trying to find her when he saw the blood peaking out of a corner of the table across the room. As he walked closer, his heart sank as when her limp hand came into view.

"Jesus Christ," John whispered.

Molly was laying on her side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. Rivers of blood were flowing from deep cuts on her wrist and expanded to the already large pool of blood around her. Time seemed to stop for Sherlock as he looked at her. Her normally rosy cheeks were deathly pale. He didn't want to, but he could feel himself retreating far from the scene and wasn't aware that John was talking until he received a hard punch.

"Sherlock! Get a grip. I need you to call Mycroft to get medics in here now!" John then grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the nearby shelf and was slowly turning Molly to lie on her back. The resonating pain on his cheek pulled him back to reality and he wasted no time dialing his brother.

"Get medics to the morgue now. Molly's bleeding out." He was surprised how calm he sounded for he was anything but that.

"Sherlock! I need your help." John looked down to see Molly's eyes flutter open. Sherlock was at his side immediately, trying his best not to calculate how much blood she had already lost. _Almost a litre_ , his treacherous mind concluded.

"Molly? Molly can you hear me? You need to stay awake for me alright?" John looked up.

"Are they coming?" Sherlock nodded as he knelt beside them. "Good, keep her arms up, we need to slow down the blood loss." John quickly inspected the rest of her body for other injuries before focusing back on her wrists.

"Shit, they must have cut through to her artery. Put pressure on her left while I do the same on the right. Wait!" John suddenly bellowed. He grabbed the extra pair of gloves and handed it to him

"Here, put on a glove before you touch her wound. Not sterile enough but it'll have to do."

Sherlock nodded as he followed the doctor's instructions. It was all he could do to just focus on that and not her shallow breath and dead cold skin.

The three minutes it took for the paramedics and doctors felt like an eternity. Sherlock never hated his mind as much as he did then. Endless memories, scenarios and regrets surrounding his pathologists plagued his conscious. Nothing tortured him as much as the guilt and regret for what was happening to her; guilt for not taking her uncharacteristic call seriously, and regret for letting it get this bad.

He noted he faint heart beat pulsing against his palm and was receding into his mind palace when he felt Molly's hand tense slightly. She must have done the same for her other hand as John too turned to look down at her.

"I'm O—" she gasped.

"Molly please, don't try to speak" John urged. "Help will be here right away." But Molly shook her head slightly and struggled on.

"H…Bom—" She couldn't finish her next words before losing consciousness. Almost immediately, her pulse though, weak began to race.

"Molly?" John asked. "She's going into shock. I'll hold the other arm. Raise her feet, now!" At the moment the paramedics ran in with a gurney prepared.

John was jogging opposite the gurney as he rattled his update to the attending doctor. "We found almost unconscious on the floor. The vertical slits on her wrists may have cut through to her radial arteries. She was probably bleeding for about half an hour—"

"At least thirty seven," Sherlock corrected distractedly. He was trying to understand what Molly had been saying. It must have taken a lot of effort to spend her last lucid thoughts on her words.

"O-H, Bom…" he mouthed. _Come on_ , he chastised himself. _Think, think!_

They had arrived at the A&E by then. John glanced at Sherlock before continuing.

"Right, and her radial arteries have been cut. She's showing early signs of shock and She's going to need immediate blood transfusion." It wasn't until Sherlock saw the nurses set up the blood bags that it clicked.

"No, stop, STOP!" Sherlock reached to stop them from inserting the IV.

"Sherlock what the _hell_ are you doing!" John screamed as he tugged him back.

"It's going to be incompatible! She's an OH blood type."

The nurse froze at his words and looked to the doctor for instructions. The doctor stared at Sherlock as he continued to explain.

"O-H. Bombay blood group. She was trying to say that earlier."

The doctor eyed him carefully before instructing the other nurse beside him. "Go check the BloodTrack for OH blood supplies."

"Doctor," the paramedic called, "She's going into hypovolemic shock."

"Dammit. Get her more oxygen and set up the bore IV lines and prepare for recussitation."

"She's lost too much blood, her organs are failing' he updated..

Sherlock knew almost the second what the doctor was going to do next.

"No—" he croaked.

"Isn't Miss Hooper registered as an O type?" The paramedic nodded nervously. "Then give her the O negative. Get inflammatory drugs and steroids on standby just in case start the deliberator. "

"She could _die—_ "

The doctor turned to them. "You two thank you but _please_ get out!"

"Sherlock let them do their job!" John bellowed as he dragged the agitated consulting detective out of the A&E.

Sherlock didn't wait until they got to the waiting room before he turned on John.

"How could you let them make that decision!"

John sighed, "If she is an OH—"

"She is!" He spat. " And you _know_ that's what she was trying to say."

"Fine but Barts most certainly won't have her type on standby."

"But provoking a hemolytic reaction in her state might—"

"Kill her, I know" John said wearily. "I don't like it either but she most certainly was going to die without the blood. There would have been no point going on without it."

Sherlock was still glaring at him. John could see it was really tearing him up but he had to hear it.

"Sherlock, you don't understand the kind of pressure you get in there. It was a life or death situation and it was his call. Let's just hope she they control the effects before a supply comes in."

Hope. Sherlock deflated at that word. Such a painful sentimental state of unknowing.

"She's going to be fine," John reassured. Sherlock could hear uncertainty in his voice but chose not to acknowledge it. Mary and Mycroft turned around the corner to meet them.

"How is she?" Mary asked apprehensively.

Sherlock walked away as John explained what happened. Mycroft watched him sit on a bench across the hallway, eyes shut, and hands cradling his head. He walked up to him, umbrella in hand.

"Don't," Sherlock's voice cracked. "Say. A _word_."

The Elder Holmes nodded before taking the seat next to his brother and remained silent.

The hospital was coming back to life around them as the last few patients and staff members were allowed back in. But Sherlock didn't notice. There was only one life in that hospital he cared about. And it was dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love too much drama. Sorry, if I'm agitating any readers. I didn't realize this was going to be so medical-ish until I started writing the dialogues out, and I'm anal about technicalities and had to stop myself from going into too much detail. I kind of feel bad for putting them through this.
> 
> Notes about some words I used:
> 
> *BloodTrack is a blood management system used in the UK. I just assumed Barts would use it as well.
> 
> *Hypovolemic shock happens when there is sever blood loss and organs are starting to fail.
> 
> *The 'hemolytic reaction' that Sherlock mentions is a blood transfusion reaction that takes place when the blood is incompatible and the body's immune system is reacting badly to it. It can show up within minutes of transfusion and is scary to deal with. In this case Molly has the rare OH blood type which can't (more like shouldn't) receive any blood from the ABO blood group. People with her blood type are often mistaken for being a type O unless they're tested further.


	4. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I've changed the synopsis slightly (well, more like elaborated it). I have finally figured out what direction I'm going with this story and felt it was safe to add the element of mystery.

An agonizing hour passed before the doctor returned to the waiting room to report her status. Despite the relatively short time, to Sherlock it felt like eternity. His mind bombarded him with survival probabilities he felt compelled to run thorough again. Never had he wanted so badly to shut his mind off, if only for a moment.

What may have been the worst thing was that the numbers were not adding up; given every variable he could scrounge up, there was no way she would have made it. He didn’t know how much time had passed before the doctor left the A&E to speak to them.

“She’s going to be fine.”

He blinked up at the voice to see the doctor addressing John and Mary. He was mildly surprise to realize that Mycroft was still sitting next to him but made no move to acknowledge his presence on his way to hear what the doctor had to say.

The doctor glanced nervously at the approaching Sherlock before resuming his report. “Yes, she did react to the O negative.” He explained rapidly. “But we managed to control the effects with the steroids on standby and got a few bags of OH almost immediately after you two had left.” 

John's eyebrows furrowed. “Hang on, there was no way the Mumbai blood bank request could have been processed fast enough.”

“Yes, apparently we did have supply of OH blood on standby in the hospital. A recent donor has been steadily providing some to us. It certainly saved her life.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor who cringed in response. Ignoring the effect he had on the man, Sherlock pressed forward with his question. “Will there be any long-term damage?”

“About that,” the doctor drew out a loud breath. “Whoever cut her knew what they were doing. They went straight for the artery with near surgical precision. Barely damaged the surrounding tendons. She won’t have any motor problems once she heals.”

John darted a look at Sherlock to see how he was taking in the information. As to be expected, his face showed no emotion. He didn’t look as distraught as he had been earlier—well, as distraught as he would ever permit anyone to see him—but his stoic face gave away nothing to what he was thinking.

“Is it okay to go see her now?” The doctor turned to look at Mary, who had been the one to ask. “Yes well, are any of you family?”

“I’m her emergency contact and she has no next of kin. I would be grateful if you allow them to visit her as they’re her close friends.”

They all turned around in surprise when they realized that Mycroft had been the one to speak up. While Sherlock was in fact caught off guard by the revelation, he had more matters weighing on him at the time.

The doctor nodded his approval. “Then they can go ahead.”

“No need,” Sherlock responded curtly before walking away and out of the waiting area.

“Wha-” John stared incredulously at his retreating form. He threw Mary a torn look and was reassured by her sympathetic smile. “Go after him. Keep his head together.” He gave a slight nod before going after his best friend.

“Right, well if you would come this way.” The doctor’s demeanor had since relaxed after Sherlock’s departure. Mary’s eyebrows rose up slightly when Mycroft made a move to follow her and the doctor. “Just to pay my regards,” he clarified almost immediately.

Mary gave him a side-glance as they walked quietly towards the patient rooms. “Why are you her emergency contact?” She received a tight smile for her troubles. By now Mary understood the elder Holmes to be a man of few words. It would appear that only his brother was capable of gauging a response out of him. Nevertheless she got the sense he wasn’t just trying to be polite.

 

* * *

  
Sherlock never ceased to amaze John, that much he was okay with; but his current behavior was really taking the cake.

“Sherlock what the hell!” He had managed to follow him all the way to the blood bank to see him having already broken in and was now going through the records from the other end of the booth. Those documents were highly confidential but the man had ceased to question how Sherlock ever got into anything.

“Aren’t you even going to see her?” Sherlock merely ruffled through another registry binder. “No record of a recent OH donor.” He discarded binder with disgust. “Do they even have protocols?”

“Are you even listening to me?” Much of the adrenaline of the day’s events had waned once it was clear that Molly was going to be okay. But Sherlock was riling him up enough to want to punch in the face. How could he be so indifferent?

“And what would be the point of that?” he responded without looking up. “I see no reason to visit an unconscious witness.” Caught unawares by his response, John could only look on in disbelief. A witness? Was that what she was to him?

Sherlock’s brows furrowed the longer he stared at the names of donor. “It doesn’t add up. The situation was primarily set up so that she would die long before—”

“Are you saying you’re disappointed that she’s alive?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sherlock seemed to have caught on to the tone for he looked up from the papers to address John in a cool voice.

“No,” he pressed, voice veiled with what John recognized was suppressed irritation. “I’m just trying to understand why Moriarty would inconvenience himself to go as far as keeping her alive until we got to her, especially in person.”

John was having hard time not wringing is neck and had made up his mind to take a swing at him when Sherlock suddenly banged on the table to get his attention.

“Bombay blood group! That’s four in a million people with that John, and they so conveniently dropped by Barts to donate blood?” Sherlock waved his hand erratically. “Not even one person, as her transfusion would have required more than 2 units of blood. He’s playing with her life and I don’t know why.”

John heard the strain towards the end of his outburst. It was now clear that Sherlock wasn’t as nonchalant as he had originally thought, and he immediately felt guilty for having believed otherwise. That knowledge was enough to deflate much of his frustration and he took a breath to clear his head.

“You think he came here?”

“This is personal to him and choice of attack was…evocative.”

The uncharacteristic pause prompted John to look up just in time to see Sherlock lost in thought for a split moment.

“Nothing,” he mumbled more to himself as he got abruptly to leave. “I prefer not to jump to conclusions anyway.” The method obviously alludes to suicide, whether it be his or mine or both is unclear.”

On their way out of the office, Sherlock gave a grateful smile at a nurse that fell the moment they passed her. The odd exchange prompted John to ask.

“I’m assuming they didn’t let you stroll in there?”

“Lestrade’s badge. Apparently Scotland Yard is already here.”

“Are we sure it’s Moriarty?” John asked hopefully. He was almost sure it was, wishing anything that it wasn’t. “Could be a copycat.”

“As tempting as that delusion is, no, it is Moriarty and he is very much alive. Though it escapes me how that is at the moment.”


	5. Bulls-eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was tricky to write. But I'm glad I pulled though.
> 
> Hope you like it~

Sherlock hesitated before walking through the doors to the lab. The blood, although not as fresh, still stuck out and the looming threat of Moriarty's promise hung over his heart. Aware that something was wrong, John looked up at him, only to miss the tightened jaw before he confidently pushed through the doors. They were met with a cold burst of air, the chill was so distinct they could almost see their breath in front of them. Despite the temperatures, the room was bustling with activity as the forensic team documented and examined the crime. Lestrade was by the corner when he heard the doors swing open.

"Sherlock?" He gaped as he approached them. "I thought you were leaving today."

"Yes I know I'm back. I'd prefer if you could tell me what I want to know about what you've collected so far, assuming your team hasn't destroyed any valuable evidence."

John let out a resigned sigh as Lestrade tried not to look offended.

"Sorry, Greg we're a bit on edge."

"No, I understand." He smiled weakly. "How is she?"

"She just got out of A&E," John answered when Sherlock didn't respond. "She'll be fine. We're just waiting for her to wake up."

"Oh thank God." Lestrade let out a sigh of relief. "When we first got her and saw all the blood…I'm glad she's okay."

Sherlock turned his head to regard the DI. He was in casual clothes –suggesting he had been off duty today—and voluntarily chose to take charge in this case. Given the short time it all had transpired, he had no doubt Mycroft had something to do with getting him on board so quickly.

"Greg why is it freezing in here?"

"We're not sure. Things started getting cold when we arrived and the staff hasn't been able to keep the temperatures from dropping."

"Not an accident I'm sure." Sherlock walked swiftly to examine the counters. The temperatures had formed a thin layer of mist, tracking every smudge or swipe on the surface. He maneuvered around the room, examining the walls and floors, looking for unusual disturbances.

They watched him make his round around the room when John turned his attention to the pool of blood. The occasional camera from a member flashed over the coagulated blood. Now that he wasn't in a clinical mood, John was able to take in the fact that what lay before him was a crime scene. The scene triggered unwanted recollections of friends bleeding out at the front lines, and John was forced to turn away.

"Did you find anything else?"

"Well you probably know this but there are barely signs of a struggle. No indication the perpetrator broke in either."

"Obviously. They most likely strolled right in." Sherlock noted quietly.

"They?" John and Lestrade asked simultaneously. That fact seemed to have escaped him and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"The scuffles by the table." He pointed to the dark marks on the floor. "Judging from the bruised wrists Molly had, it would be safe to say she was held in place when her wrists were sliced open. His mouth twitched at the last deduction. "Moriarty's vendetta would have motivated him harm her himself, so the other man's purpose was to keep her from struggling, which she didn't happen to do. Why didn't she fight?"

The last question had been mumbled whisper for his benefit. Having that level of control in a life-threatening situation was an unlikely. Something else must have transpired to explain that, but that wasn't readily deducible in the situation. Sherlock looked up at the corners of the wall. "Did the camera catch anything?"

"No, it was fried by the time we got here but but IT thinks they could retrieve some footage. Hang on, you think Moriarty is behind this?"

"It don't _think_ , I know he is behind this."

"Moriarty." Lestrade rubbed his face exhaustively. "How is he back?"

"I have a few pending theories." Sherlock replied distractedly. There was something covering the lens of the camera. The mist had uncovered a smudge made on the lens. No, not a smudge. He turned back to drag a chair under the camera. It was a rubbed drawing; hastily made, but still recognizable. An eye, shaped more like an O when he looked carefully. Like a trigger, the camera whirred to life, red light blinking to a steady glare.

"Lestrade call off your team. I need them out right now."

"What is it?"

"Just do it!"

The men and women looked about in confusion as Lestrade apologetically ushered them out. "Everybody wait out by the door. Won't be a moment," he called out before shutting the door on them.

"Okay," he turned around. "Sherlock what's this about?"

"The camera's working fine."

"What?" John gaped.

"There's nothing wrong with it." He jumped of the chair and began pacing.

"How can it be working? The security team and confirmed it was broken."

"And when was that?"

The DI deliberated for a moment. "It was one of the first things we checked so about an hour ago."

That meant everything was compromised. "Damn, it." Sherlock hissed. He should have gotten here sooner. _Don't cloud your judgment_. Mycroft's voice carried through his mind. _Think of the motive._

"Think, think!" He stopped suddenly, shutting his eyes. It didn't help. It was a deliberate altercation, one that may be one to bring attention away or towards something. _But what?_

"Lestrade," he called out, eyes still closed. "Has there been any unusual items recovered so far?"

"No, nothing. We were hoping to find the blade or brush to get some DNA but nothing came up."

"Brush?" Sherlock whirled around to throw him a bewildered stare. "Why a brush?"

"The one that painted the letters on the door. One of the forensic members catalogued the patterns."

"Oh, stupid!" He ran past them to open the doors. The members startled at his suddenness and Sherlock immediately scanned their faces.

"All of you step back," he ordered. The crowd blinked back in response. "I said step back before I have every one of you incriminated for manipulating evidence." An immediate response followed his threat and they away.

"Sherlock what's going on?" John walked out to the hall with Lestrade following after.

"I've missed something and of these people is going to help point it out."

"What?"

"Moriarty knew I would drive them out when I suspected interference. Force me to consider everything again." He turned to face the glaring red letters on the door. This was the only piece of evidence his evacuation would have distracted him from examination. Therefore it should be what he's supposed to focus on.

He shut his eyes once more, trying to reconcile the image and he first received to the letters before them now. It didn't take long to realize the difference, and he mentally smacked himself for not seeing it earlier.

"Was that line in the 'O' that long before?"

John and Lestrade moved away from the door to see what he was pointing out.

"There." He pointed to the center of the letter. "The stroke of the brush indicates it was drawn from the top, painted counterclockwise but the circle doesn't close at the top. The end stroke was swiped down towards the center. It's longer than before." The men frowned at the letters, clearly unable to see what he did.

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and pulled out his mobile to tap a rapid text out. He then turned to face the silent group, narrowing down the their physical cues until one individual fit the marks.

"You." He indicated to short mid-sized man who all but jumped. "You were in charge of collecting samples from this correct?"

"Y-yes."

"What letter did you gather a sample from?"

The man hesitated for a moment.

"What. Letter," he pressed.

"T-the 'I'. Top stroke, left corner."

"Then could you explain to us why you felt the need to paint over all the letters?"

"What?" he squeaked.

"I see you're left handed." Sherlock continued, walking slowly towards the man. "Must have been difficult tracing the end of the 'O' when your hand inconveniently covers your line of sight. And I noticed your hands shook towards the end of the stroke. Probably got nerves, right?" He smiled sympathetically, only for it to fall to a deadpan face. "Worried about being caught in the middle of tainting evidence?"

He stopped right in front of the man. "Unless you were meant to be helping." The rest of the team had since taken a cautious step away, leaving him alone to feel the wrath of the consulting detective that bore a frightening smile on his face.

"Cooling the room would certainly have helped drying the blood but you should have realized the layers would be inconsistent. Honestly, are you really a forensic scientist? You should have realized a cloth was originally used to paint the letters and that using a brush would have left different streaks. Oh."

A slow grin rose up to his face as he took in the man's paling complexion. "Didn't think to question orders? Pity he didn't brief you on your inevitable capture."

He turned around to face the door, arms amicably placed behind his back. "It sort of looks like an eye right now doesn't it? That's how your employer gave you away."

The man was visibly shaking now, and Sherlock's lighthearted demeanor fell away to give the man a menacing glare.

"You have less than 30 seconds to deliver your message from him before great harm comes your way. And don't think of running." Sherlock whispered when the man tensed up. "I guarantee you won't get very far."

"I didn't have a choice!" he spluttered. "He swore he would kill—"

"I don't care why you did it just tell me what he wants me to know."

A tense silence followed his words and Sherlock's patience finally wore thin. Without warning, he grabbed the man's collar and pushed him hard against the wall, positioning his forearm uncomfortably under the man's neck.

"Should I go on?"

"He s-said he was worried you wouldn't catch on." He coughed when Sherlock applied more pressure against his trachea. "w-w-anted to make s-sure you would see it."

"Lovely." He immediately released him, and patted his cheek before standing to his full height.

The man broke into a sprint away from them all, bouldering people as he scrambled to get away from them.

"Wha-get him!" Lestrade cried out to the dumbfounded officers.

Sherlock watched on lazily as he made his escape.

"Don't bother. Mycroft's men are waiting for him around the corner."

 

* * *

 

"What just happened?"

John was still in a daze as he watched officers come in to question the forensic team. The crime scene was suspended until a new group could be assigned to the location.

"It would seem that Moriarty doubted my competence. Thought I might need help noticing this." Sherlock carefully scrapped a sample from the surface.

"Noticing what?" John asked as he watched Sherlock store it into a small airtight container before dropping it into his pocket.

"That the blood isn't just Molly's."

Sherlock's mobile beeped an alert, and he reached into the other. His mouth thinned to a grim line as he read it.

_Bull's-eye_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new to writing the intricacies of masterminds. I really hope it worked. Comment for thoughts/feedback?


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